


slippery when wet

by recycledstars



Category: The Newsroom (US TV)
Genre: Exactly What It Says on the Tin, F/M, Shameless Smut, Shower Sex, entirely shameful, if by shameless you mean shameful
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-11-19
Updated: 2014-11-19
Packaged: 2018-02-26 06:23:58
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,729
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2641421
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/recycledstars/pseuds/recycledstars
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Mac has some strong opinions on shower sex.</p>
            </blockquote>





	slippery when wet

**Author's Note:**

> This could not be about less. Literally the only thing this is about is shower sex. That's it. (I have an exam tomorrow and instead of studying I wrote this, please benefit from my procrastination because I'm definitely not gonna. Also I still haven't seen season 3 so your canon compliance may vary? If it's even possible for something this plotless to be canon non-compliant.)

“I don’t know what you have against it,” he remarks, fingers working shampoo into her hair. 

She stands under the spray to wash it out, eyes closed, and he stares for a moment before trailing his soapy fingers down her front, tracing out the contours of her chest, paying attention to the details, his thumb slippery against a hardening nipple.

“Really?” She cracks one eye open. “Do you want a list?”

He follows his hand with his mouth, continues the conversation in a passionate dialogue with her left breast. “Yes. I think I do.”

She moans, gets her fingers tangled in his wet hair.

 

 

“One. It’s dangerous.”

She digs her fingers into his shoulders to catch herself when she slips a little, a combination of shampoo suds and the surprise of him hitting _that_ spot, blind luck, first time. He presses his fingers in the kind of slow circles that give her eyes an impatient glint, and he waits for them to narrow further, until her breathing is shallow and she looks like she might actually hit him, before increasing the pressure.

“ _God_ Will.” The pinch of her fingernails in his shoulder gets harder but she pushes him back before he can kiss her. “Seriously, a quarter of a million Americans injure themselves in the shower every year according to the CDC –” She cuts herself off with her teeth in her lip, moaning, when he very suddenly shifts from slow to fast, circles to straight up rubbing and she gets a lot more vocal, at ever-increasing pitch.

“I’m not going to ask why _that_ statistic is so fresh in your mind,” he says, waiting until she’s cursing nonsensically and loud enough to echo off the tile before stilling the hand between her legs.

She groans in frustration and he curls his other hand around her hip, holding her against the wall so she can’t rock against him. “But since you’re so safety conscious, I’ll stop.”

Mac glares at him, panting. “I hate you right now.”

He gives her a minute, then flexes his fingers. She jumps.

“I really don’t think that you do.”

“If that’s the game two can play,” she warns him, fisting a hand around his erection.

She’s torture, gives him a fast three minutes which makes it hard not to match her pace (like trying to rub your stomach and pat your head, except, the dirty version) and says, in a throaty murmur, “We don’t have to play games, you could fuck me right now.”

(An underhanded tactic, because she _never_ talks like that and it drives him crazy when she does.)

“I thought you were safety conscious,” he manages to say.

At which she all-but stops and responds, very casually, “Well do you know you can fracture this?”

 

 

She tilts her mouth towards his until he kisses her, water and her encouraging gasps running in between their mouths. Until in combination it’s too much water and too much tongue and they both choke a little.

“Two.” She coughs. “You always get something in your mouth or in your eyes –”

For a moment he can’t tell if she’s said it on purpose, if he should interject with _sometimes that’s the point_. But then she carries on, low and suggestive, “Which is all fun and games.”

(And suddenly that imagery, _in her mouth_ and _in her eyes_ , is interrupting his hands a little, has him thrusting against hers.) 

“Until it’s shampoo,” she adds, in a regular tone of voice. 

Then she licks some water from his shoulder, tongue very deliberate and very evocative and completely undermining her point. 

 

 

“Three. Water is wet –”

He’s kneeling in front of her, hands running up her thighs. Smirking, he lifts one of her legs over her shoulder, a move that leaves them precariously balanced but optimally positioned for him to test out this theory he has that –

He tongues up, between her folds, nose pressed into her clit and reports his findings, “Water’s not the only thing.”

She grips rather ineffectually at the flat of the wall.

“But paradoxically that doesn’t mean it’s the same as lubrication –”

He spreads her with his fingers. “We’re really not having any problems in that depar –”

“Shut up,” she instructs, hand pushing his head against her and he obediently busies his mouth. She rocks her hips to help his tongue.

“My point is, more isn’t always better.” She gasps a little between each word, hands still trying to find anything to hold onto until finally she settles for clawing at the back of his head.

In non-verbal rebuttal, he sucks at her clit and she cries out, gravity and her hands forcing his mouth against her harder and he has to pin her to the wall with one hand so she doesn’t stifle him completely but it's worth it – her thighs shake and her body goes completely taught then slack, breathing ragged.

(So sometimes more is better. He leaves his tongue pressed against her so he can feel the last of it, her body still throbbing under his mouth.)

 

 

“Four. It’s hard.”

He’s trying not to be offended that she’s still pursuing this line of argument even after his rather thorough counterpoint. They’re trying to negotiate the difference in their heights (this is so much easier when she’s wearing heels) but it’s proving a little challenging. 

“I can’t decide where I want to run with that. The possibilities are just –”

“I meant logistically –”

“Turn around.”

She obliges, arching her back and looking at him over her shoulder. “Does this work?”

“You tell me.” He tries not to be too impatient, but _fuck_ , she’s so _hot_ and she moans and says _fuck Will_ when he pushes into her so, maybe he slams her against the wall a _little_ when he starts to move. She swears again, appreciatively, reaches down and takes one of his hands where it’s resting against her hip. 

“But the tiles are also hard,” she tells him, pushing herself back of the wall and into him with a flat palm. “Hard and _cold_.”

“Is that bothering you?” he says in her ear.

“Not right now. But in genera – _oh_.”

He reaches between her legs and cuts her off, and she falls forward against the tile, has to use both hands to prop herself up because it has her trembling.

And okay, sure, she’s right, it’s risky, balance-wise, and water does get everywhere and the position is a little awkward but she’s naked and wet and shaking under him and loud and it _echoes_ and everything smells like her shampoo. He’s firmly on the side of pros outweighing cons.

 

 

He doesn’t quite out last her because she makes him forget what to do with his hands, forget everything actually, except instinct, until he regains consciousness, collapsed against her back. He kisses her shoulder, trapping one of her hands against the wall, curling his fingers through hers. She leans over and kisses the back of his hand, smiling. 

“Number five,” she murmurs, so he can only just hear her over the shower, which is still running and thank God his hot water is apparently limitless. “Finally. It’s mostly that we have a perfectly good bed ten feet from here.”

He searches with his fingers at the juncture of her thighs until she gasps and he concentrates on that spot as he says, “Well we can make exhaustive use of that too –”

That elicits something between a laugh and a moan.

She’s already twitching under his fingers though, and she doesn’t usually have the patience for adjourning to the bedroom. (Which is actually what started the debate in the first place: she of the _let’s just do it on the nearest hard surface_ hall of fame declared the shower unfavorable. Mac, who once made him pause mid-omelet to make her come three times on the kitchen counter.) 

“– if you like.”

“Will,” she hums, sweetly. 

“Yes?”

“Hurry up and make me –”

He does, before she finishes the sentence actually, and he’s a little proud of that. 

(He’s also still half-erect inside her when she comes _hard_ – she always enjoys it when he keeps her talking – tight and hot and … his mind goes a little numb at that too.)

 

 

They clean themselves off before she cuts the water. 

“I suppose it is less mess,” she admits, taking the towel he hands her and running it over her hair. 

_Check_ \- he thinks.

“Then again,” she adds, in his ear, “That’s one of my favorite parts.”

 _\- mate._  
  
She closes her case by patting his cheek. “But I suppose I can go to bed clean for a change. Even though I’d much prefer to go to bed dirty.”

The smile she gives him before she walks out is one of her wickedest.

 

 

“So,” he begins, curling up behind her. “If that was your argument _against_ the shower I can’t wait to see your argument _for_ the new rug in the living room.”

“You want to give me carpet burn tomorrow night?” she asks, innocent-but-decidedly-not in half-sleep. 

“Do you even have to ask?”

“Not really.” 

She smiles, eyes closed, mumbles goodnight and he thinks there’s a joke to be made about not-so-sweet dreams but her breathing slows before he has the chance. (He’ll never understand how she can fall asleep in the space between his sentences.)

He pulls her closer, which stirs her a little and she grumbles at him, tells him to go to sleep. Which he does eventually, but first he buries his face in her shoulder, her still-wet hair cold against his face, and thinks about other people’s problems instead of his own because for the first time in a long time he feels like he doesn’t have any. He thinks about 100 Republican signatures compelling the Supreme Court to rule in favor of same-sex marriage and how finally, after three years, maybe progress is being made. 

And their progress: they sleep in the dark now, and the quiet, except for her breathing which is a music all of its own. Maybe the world is catching up.

He thinks on that, and on tomorrow, and yeah, a little bit on carpet burn and the elegant way she constructs an argument and _going to bed dirty_. 

(Not that he’s not happy to oblige but, he doesn’t really care how they go to bed, as long as they do it together.)

 

**Author's Note:**

> I tend to be with homegirl on this one: shower sex, better in theory than in practice. But I guess it works out sometimes. Mac's stat is wrong by the way, it's 250 000 injuries in bathrooms total, not specifically in the shower. Though 81% of those do occur in the bath/shower. #educational
> 
> And bam, surprise feelings at the end? I don't know, I was struggling to wrap up but wanted to leave rug sex sequel potential open. It's possible this might turn into a multi-chapter involving adjusting to being in a relationship by having sex in every room in the house which seems like a mature and responsible way of going about it. My ideas tend to snowball like that. Also I apologize for a rubbish title pun but it's better than "good clean fun" which was the joke I had with myself at time of writing.


End file.
